We never did too much talkin', anyway

I'm reading these things online, how to get over a break-up, and so many of them suggest getting rid of "mementos."

Should I throw away the corsage from my first prom? Should I get rid of my favorite books that are his favorite books, too? Delete all of the Bob Dylan music on my computer because he's the one who gave it to me?

He says I need to figure out who I am, as if he knows who he is. I feel weird typing this because there's a chance he might still read it. I know I'm more than old, dried up flowers and the books in my bookshelf, my iTunes music. Rationally, I know that.

But being rid of all of that makes me feel like I'm not a person. I don't understand how this isn't happening to him. I guess it was a long time ago he took down the pictures I drew for him and put away the poetry we read to each other, once. He stopped wearing the shoes I bought for him and was going to throw away the sweater I gave him even before all of this happened.

But I can't even look in the mirror and be "just me." My eyes remind me of his eyes. My mouth of his mouth.

I'm a ghost, now.

Plastic Cups, Scraps of Paper

Someday, I will write the story of my life in plastic cups.

Thirsty people will pour water into my first day of school, lemonade into the time I almost drowned, cola into the day my dog died. At parties, strangers will drink memories of my best friend and recollections of life before my mom and dad were divorced. Before bedtime, children will rinse their teeth with my tears and the discovery of my passion for learning and the scary movie I should not have seen before going to sleep.

Someday, I will write my hopes and dreams on scraps of paper.

Teenagers will solve mathematics problems above the day I join the Peace Corps and the names of my children. Winking playfully, a woman will scribble her telephone number on top of the day that I am finally able to go to India, and hand it to a handsome, smiling man. A bored secretary will doodle next to my romanticized notion of adventure.

For once, I will be more than myself. I will have an impact on strangers; I will be desired and imperative and useful. Though disposable, I will make a difference.

Until then, I am my life story, my hopes and dreams, manifest in the body of a young woman too seemingly plain for anyone to think twice about.